


It's Only Forever

by MirrorEmpire



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:37:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorEmpire/pseuds/MirrorEmpire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Always be careful what you wish for...<br/>...for you just might get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Only Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Gentle Reader, some words of explanation before you enter my LABYRINTH…
> 
> Like my other fanfic that I’m posting now in AO3, this story is unchanged from its original version. “It’s Only Forever” was written in 1986-87. Sarah is fourteen during the events of LABYRINTH because Jennifer Connelly was fourteen when the film was shot. Sarah had no last name on-screen, and I assumed that Linda Williams had taken back her maiden name when she ran off, and that Sarah's last name would be different.
> 
> Typing this story into Word (all my fanfic was written on a typewriter) was, in a way, like stepping into a past I’d half-forgotten. “Why, Haagen-Daz used to make a peach ice cream!” Do not waste your time looking for Elberta Peach, however -- for alas, the flavor is no longer available.
> 
> In one case, I could not even remember what an item was; I had to look up ‘mailgram’, which turned out to be this: the customer paid Western Union to send a message electronically to a US Post Office, which printed the message out and then the postman delivered it with the regular mail. Yes, really.
> 
> When this story was written the Berlin Wall still stood grimly dividing East and West. The USSR still glowered at the US across the Iron Curtain. Gulf War Part One would not take place for another three years.
> 
> The passage of 35 years has created a new world.
> 
> Welcome to the past…

**_THE LABYRINTH_ **

_Once in the lands beyond the morning there lived a prince who was as beautiful as the day and as proud as Lucifer.  He cared for no one’s wishes but his own, and bent to no one’s will but his._

_But Life teaches its own lessons, soon or late.  And soon or late the prince would learn them.  One day he was proud and arrogant when a wise man would have been quiet and humble, and so gave another power over him._

_The power was bound into a book that read as the reader would have it, and bound the prince to grant the one who read it one wish from the heart…._

#

 

**_PROLOGUE:  FOURTEEN_ **

            ‘…so the Princess took back the child he had stolen, and the King of the Goblins was again alone in his castle beyond the Goblin City.  There he ruled his Labyrinth and spun his magic crystals.  And he waited for the day when another young girl would be foolish, and give him power over her.’

            It was hard to close the slender red book, to admit that it was only a story.  There was something about it that caught at her, insisted on her attention.  The best fairy tale she’d ever read; the best present she’d ever gotten.  ‘For your fourteenth birthday, darling – Jeremy found it in a second-hand shop and thought you’d like it.  Sorry I had to cancel on our celebration in New York, but an audition came up, and I know you understand.  Take the check and buy yourself something really nice.’

            She hugged the book tight to her breast and leaned back against the rough tree trunk that supported her and shielded her from prying eyes.  Nothing could be nicer than this book.  The perfect fantasy, it had made her forget everything – even the constant ache in her heart – as if she had been there, in the Labyrinth, with the Princess and the Goblin King.  Oh, if only she were the Princess, and the Goblin King, that elusive, infinitely desirable being, were _hers_ for the saying.

            _You wouldn’t catch ME throwing him over for a stupid baby._   Stinging pain in her eyes, a throb in her stomach, as she was reminded once more of her half-brother’s existence.  She would never accept that, never!

            She blinked hard and opened the book to the beginning again.  It fell open at the frontispiece; the sepia-tinted owl, avatar of the Goblin King, stared out at her with unseeing eyes.  She gently stroked the page, marveling at the intricate etching, each feather perfect.  The King of the Goblins…oh, how she wished for someone who would love her like that; jealously, exclusively, beyond reason or sense.  Someone who would never leave her, never.

            "I wish you were in love with _me_ ," she said fiercely.  A sudden gust of summer breeze tossed the branches above her wildly; leaves rustled and hissed.  "Oh, I wish you were in love with _me!"_

            "Sarah!"  Her stepmother’s voice, hurtful to her ears.  "Sarah, where are you?  Dinner’s ready!"

            She slammed the magical book shut, her mouth already set in thin lines of unhappy temper.  "Coming!" she called back.  She held the book against her cheek before stuffing it down the front of her shirt.  No one must see this book but her, no one.

            "Sarah!"

            "I’m _coming,_ I said!"

            She scrambled to her feet and ran across the yard to the house.  Behind her, the breeze died away; the leaves were quiet.  High up in the tree, the owl tilted its head and watched her until she banged the door hard behind her.

#

 

**_AND SEVEN TWICE_ **

            It was June, and blazingly hot, and there was a new fruit stand on the corner.  Sarah paused to admire the eye-catching array of summer fruits.  It all looked so good – maybe some strawberries?  She could serve them with ice-cold Chablis as a sophisticated grace note to tonight’s meal.

            Realizing she was blocking the heavy pedestrian traffic, Sarah angled herself closer to the display bins, her dark brows drawing together as she considered her options.  Strawberries were nice, but so many people were allergic to them, and perhaps Sam was one of them.  Cherries?

            Frowning slightly, Sarah picked up a basket of raspberries to examine it more closely, juggling pocketbook, briefcase, and plastic-shrouded dress fresh from the cleaners with the unthinking ease of the city-dweller.  She was proud of her city-skills, carefully acquired; as much a part of her professional image as her smart business suits, her ideal accessories, her meticulously-cut hair – short, yet attractive.  The perfect young business executive on her way up:  competent; not unfeminine.

            The heavy sweet scent hit her hard and unexpectedly.  Cloying yet enticing, it teased her senses, made her damp hair rise on her neck.  Sarah swallowed hard against the tingling queasiness in the pit of her stomach, but it did no good.  She closed her eyes, suddenly dizzy, as if the world swooped and swayed to unheard music….

            "You like peaches?" suggested a voice.

            Sarah opened her eyes.  The nice little old Korean gentleman who ran the fruit stand stood beside her, offering her a large ripe peach.  She looked past him to a bin piled high with those deceptively appealing objects.  She hadn’t noticed the peaches before.

            "Very nice, fresh from California," he added hopefully, and held the peach up under her nose.  The honeyed scent became even stronger.

            "No!"  Sarah recoiled from the rosy-golden fruit, her stomach twisting.  "No – I’ll – I’ll take this instead."  The fresh raspberries were $4.99 a half-pint, but Sarah hardly noticed as she handed over a five-dollar bill.  She concentrated instead on smiling back at the little man as he beamed and nodded and carefully rang up her purchase and scrupulously counted out her one-penny change despite her automatic protestation of, "Oh, forget it.  What can you do with a penny?"

            Finally she was free to walk on, down the tree-lined street to her apartment house, and her air-conditioned apartment, and her carefully choreographed evening.  At nine o’clock this Friday morning, Sarah had been almost confident of the outcome of this dinner, and of how she and Sam would spend the weekend.  She had worked her way up to it long enough, and carefully enough.

            The quiet lunch dates, the walks in the parks, the museums and movies – and never a false move, an intimate move, from either of them.  She had been burned too many times to move quickly, and Sam had respected her reticence.  She’d had high hopes for this relationship; Sam was genuinely nice, and he was certainly attractive.  The necessary pull was there.

            So much time and effort – and now she was unsure, certainty shattered by the scent of peaches, a scent that always seemed to linger.  She was afraid she would dream tonight – one of those strange, clinging nightmares that had begun when she was fourteen and would not let her go.

            Mentally shaking herself, Sarah forced away defeatist thoughts as she waited for the elevator.  She was hot; it had been a long day.  A shower and fresh clothes would revive her.  And she’d be too busy to dream tonight.  She and Sam would make sure of that.

#

            Dinner was her very best _nouvelle cuisine_ , served elegantly even if the plates were by Corelle.  Conversation was intelligent, witty, and led inexorably to the topic that interested them both.  Sarah was not surprised when Sam gently tilted her face so that he could kiss her.  She’d worked damned hard on this evening; it was the least he could do, and she fully intended him to do the most.

            She wanted to close her eyes, to lean toward him, to run her hands through his wavy hair.  To abandon herself to the sensations she knew she was entitled to experience.  But it wasn’t going to work.  She knew that as soon as his lips touched hers.

            _You don’t want him, Sarah…_   The voice whispered through her mind, as it always had.  _You want me…me…me…_

            "No!  Stop it!"  She was sitting bolt upright, holding her hands to her ears, trying to stop that crystal-chiming echo.

            And that, of course, had been that.  Sarah hadn’t even tried to keep Sam there; she knew better.  Once she would have tried.  But now she knew that once that voice started, it wouldn’t stop, and she would dream—

            "The hell I will!"  Sarah tossed back her hair and began attacking the dishes in the sink.  There was always a movie on the Late, Late Show.  No sleep, no nightmares.

            She had learned that long ago.

            "Sweet sixteen and never been kissed."  Once the phrase had seemed funny.  But when she was in her freshman year at Columbia she stopped pretending there was anything normal about a girl who heard voices warning her away from every inviting caress, every sensual touch.  About a girl who flinched away to the sound of crystal bells chiming; an early-warning system that divined the intentions of her would-be partners before she did.  There was nothing of her own to fight, no personal objections to overcome.  Just the insistent voice spiraling around inside her head until she thought she would go mad.

            "Miss Touch-me-not" – "Ice Maiden" – those were the kindest of the nicknames she acquired, and Sarah could hardly blame the boys who tossed them at her bitterly.  Word got around, of course.  After enough frustrating failures, it was the first thing anyone knew about her.  "There goes the Snow Queen – she’ll string you along but good – look but don’t touch, that’s her motto."

            Frigid Sarah Cunningham, a notorious failure at twenty-one.

            That was the year she tried to celebrate her birthday with the help of a new boyfriend, one who was sure, despite the campus gossip, that he could unlock her mysterious chastity belt.  Insulated by bad pot and too much Ruinite, Sarah had made it to the very brink – and had ended up going home barefoot in the warm June night, underclothes stuffed into her purse and her dress pulled over her naked body.  She’d never dared ask for her shoes back.

            That time, the nightmares had lasted for weeks.

            After that fiasco, she had abandoned her quest for passion and concentrated on getting her MBA.  She’d graduated with honors, at least in that field.  Dad and Stepmom had been there, and given her a dazzlingly impressive briefcase:  burgundy leather with her initials stamped on it in gold.  Her mother had mailgrammed warm congratulations after Dad had sent another copy of the graduation program, and apologized profusely for losing the first invitation.

            Her first job, as a management trainee at the prestigious Cromyn Venture Partners Limited, meant a move from scruffy student housing to a tiny studio in Chelsea.  Everyone said the area was gentrifying; Sarah immersed herself in her job and the challenge of decorating her own apartment.  For a year, that had been enough.  Then, egged on by friends at the office – "Look, Sarah, you’re a great kid – but take it from an old bitchy lady VP – a title on the door won’t keep you warm at night" – she’d started to date again.

            Nice men, most of them.  Special men, some of them.  For her – none of them.  Her love-life between twenty-two and twenty-eight was a series of fiascos nerve-wrackingly concealed; a shameful secret.  Her professional life went smoothly, as if greased with luck; she gained a promotion to a position involving travel and expense accounts.

            The year she was twenty-eight, Sarah threw out all the names and phone numbers given to her by well-meaning acquaintances, and bought a co-op in Brooklyn Heights.

            Twenty-eight and never been kissed.  That wasn’t funny at all.  It was the reason she had finally yielded to an office-friend’s insistence that she would like Sam, adore Sam, that Sam was perfect for her, and agreed to meet him.  And she did like him, he liked her, he was perfect.  But not for Sarah Cunningham.

            Apparently no one was perfect for Sarah Cunningham.

            She’d have to think of something to say to Maggie, something to explain why she and Sam just hadn’t worked out.  It was a safe bet she’d never see him again.  Oh, he’d been nice about it; as nice as possible, under the circumstances.  No recriminations, just a suggestion that she might consider professional help?  Would she be all right?  Should he call a friend to come and stay with her--?

            But he was gone now, and she was alone again.

            Sarah splashed cold water on her face; it did nothing to cool her or ease her throbbing head.  She took two Anacin before turning on the TV and climbing into bed.  The movie’s title blurred as her eyes stung with tears.  It was so unfair!  What was wrong with her?  Why couldn’t she be normal, just like everybody else?

            She stayed away until the hurricane hit Key Largo.  By then it was almost two-thirty, and she lost the battle, sliding down to whatever waited for her.

            _She knew every inch of the way, every turn of the corridors, but it never made any difference, she could never find it.  She could run until her heart stopped, but it was always just ahead, around a curve, down an alleyway.  She ran anyway._

_Past stone walls that glittered ice.  Over dead leaves thick upon the pavement.  Through air that slid soft and chill over her skin.  She ran so fast her hair floated and wrapped itself around her, one more adversary that would stop her._

_She couldn’t get out, and she couldn’t find what she must have to set herself free.  If she could not find it, she would run this maze forever…._

            She didn’t, of course.  No dream lasts forever.  When she finally woke, she lay staring up at the dappled-dark ceiling of her bedroom, willing her breath to come more easily.

            The maze, always the maze – she’d said once, in a moment of black humor, that she felt like a laboratory rat.  It wasn’t right, it wasn’t _reasonable_ – there had to be some way –

            Out.  No, that wasn’t right.  What was right, then?  Out…no, in.  Yes, you went ‘in’ to --  Oh, this was ridiculous, trying to analyze it, it was only a dream, a stupid, stupid nightmare.  Nothing to be afraid of; it couldn’t hurt her.

            She flung herself over to bury her face in the pillow.  It couldn’t hurt her, it could just ruin her sleep.  Ruin her life.

            It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried before.  She’d seen a psychologist at Student Health for a few weeks after Robert and his Ruinite.  The woman had been sympathetic, suggested a childhood trauma – rape, incest, abuse – to account for the voice and the nightmares that followed it.

            Nothing, Sarah had told her honestly, nothing, nothing like that, I had a happy childhood, mostly – well, there was a divorce and my father remarried when I was twelve – I’ve got a brother almost thirteen years younger than I am, would you believe –

            Oh, sure I was sort of upset at first, but I got over it.  Stepmom and I get along fine, really fine, no problem.  Nothing awful, no, no, no.  The psychologist had gently suggested that perhaps something had happened that was so traumatic all memory of it had been repressed.  Sarah didn’t go back again after that.

            So what did she do now?  Sensible Sarah, fast-track, upscale Sarah, whose parents were so proud of their smart, successful, sensible daughter.  What was she going to tell them if she really was losing her mind?

            She began to laugh, the pillow muting the sound, softening the faint note of hysteria.  If she were going nuts, she wouldn’t have to worry about what to tell people, for heaven’s sake!  But she had to do something, damn it.  She could not, could not possibly, go on like this.  Maybe she should enter a convent.  Maybe Sam was right, and she should have her head examined again.

            Right, and the shrink would keep trying to find some nonexistent trauma.  They never wanted to hear that you’d been indulged to the max, had a fairy-tale childhood in one of those little old Hudson River towns insulated by money and Victorian architecture from the twentieth century.  They wanted modern horrors, modern sins, and there hadn’t been any.

            But then the breeze caught the window shade and made it flap, a sound like giant wings.  The sudden noise made Sarah jerk convulsively; she lifted her head from the pillow and saw pre-dawn gray backlighting the blowing shade.

Another night lost.

#

            Dr. Bruno Winterthur had a discreet Central Park South address, a discreet secretary, and a discreet yet encouraging ad in the back of NEW YORK magazine.  He seemed nice enough, his manner also discreet yet encouraging; Sarah was encouraged to hope she’d chosen wisely this time.

            "And why do you think hypnotherapy will be of help to you, Miss Cunningham?"

            She explained, haltingly at first, as little as possible.  Then, as she gained more confidence, all, no matter how silly it sounded to her.  " – and just the scent of peaches gives me the nightmares too.  I’ve never heard of an allergy like that before, have you?"

            She looked at him hopefully, but Dr. Winterthur was properly noncommittal.  He talked to her for half an hour, took her medical history, and made an appointment for her for next week.

            "Were you always allergic to peaches?" he asked as Sarah was thanking him and gathering up her pocketbook and briefcase.

            A sudden sharp-cut memory of an orgy – fresh peaches sunwarm from the tree, washed and peeled and served with cream.  Grandmother’s house in Atlanta, when she was eight.

            "No," said Sarah, voice rising in surprise.

            Dr. Winterthur glanced at his watch.  "You ate peaches before your brother was born, then?"  His voice was matter-of-fact.

            "Why, yes, I – I guess so – but that can’t possibly have anything to do with it!  Can it?"

            "I’ll see you on Tuesday, Miss Cunningham.  In the meantime, you might consider triggering one of your dreams deliberately."

            This suggestion stunned her so much that she was standing on the busy sidewalk, buffeted by the lemming ballet of almost-rush-hour, before she could formulate her thoughts.  Trigger one of those nightmares on _purpose?_   Was he crazy?

            _MY dreams!_ She thought indignantly.  _What does he mean, MY dreams?  I don’t want them!_   And she would be sure to tell him so on Tuesday.

#

            On Tuesday, Dr. Winterthur seemed surprised neither by her angry refutation of any claim on the dreams, nor by the fact that she’d made no effort to summon one.  She was cross, prickly and defensive; he ignored that too.  At her insistence that he start doing some hypnosis on her, he sighed.

            "I really would prefer you to trigger your own dreams, Sarah, before doing any hypnotherapy.  Then we -- "

            "No!  I didn’t come here to _have_ more dreams, damn it!"

            "Try it, Sarah.  Of course you don’t want to – no normal person seeks out unpleasant experiences.  But I think it would be very valuable for you.  And you’re paying me good money for my expert opinion."

            Her reluctance was wordlessly plain.  Dr. Winterthur scribbled on a piece of paper.  "Look, here’s my private home number; you can call me even if it’s two in the morning.  Okay, Sarah?"

            She smiled weakly.  "Okay.  Okay, I’ll try it."

            "Good.  Call me if you need me.  I’ll see you next week."

#

            She could not quite stomach buying fresh peaches; she settled on a pint of Elberta Peach Haagen-Daz ice cream instead.  That part was fairly easy.  But when she was standing in her kitchen with a scoop of the pale orange cream melting in the bowl, she couldn’t bring herself to set the spoon in it.

            _Ice cream – it’s only ICE CREAM, for heaven’s sake, you LIKE ice cream!_   Surely even _peach_ ice cream was the merest trifle to one who had braved Manhattan’s darkest sushi bars.  Just one bite….

            She couldn’t do it.  Defeated, Sarah set down the bowl.  She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the forlorn half-bottle of Chablis that had been sitting there, unopened and unloved, for weeks.  She’d eat the damned ice cream, she _would,_ but not without something to kill the taste.

            After she’d drunk down a waterglassful of wine, she found she hardly minded picking up the spoon at all.  Sarah swallowed two semi-liquid mouthfuls before she gagged on one of the pieces of real fruit Haagen-Daz was so proud of including in its product.

            Her stomach tried to revolt; Sarah clutched the edge of the counter grimly and fought against queasiness.  The bit of fruit was so cold it had hardly any taste or texture of its own; that made it easier.  Washing it down with some more wine would make it easier still –

            It didn’t.  Sarah gave up and ran for the bathroom.  Later, after she’d thrown up, and washed the rest of the Elberta Peach down the kitchen sink with steaming water, she used the rest of the Chablis to take the two Percodan left over from her last dental appointment.  She’d been saving the narcotic painkillers for an emergency.

            This qualified.

#

            She was in the maze, running, running -- but somehow it was different.  There was an odd taste in her mouth, sweet, as if she'd been drugged; she moved more slowly this time; dreamlike, not nightmarish --

            She could stop running, if she liked.

            Her hair floated about her still body as if the air were water-thick.  The walls beside her shone solid and insubstantial as glass.  No way out.

"Help me," she said aloud.  Her voice echoed off the shining walls; chimmered like muted bells in the supple air.

"Sarah…."

            There was someone with her; she turned.  Ash-pale corona of hair, like an egret-feather headdress; long feathered sleeves of cape.  He was beautiful in the exotic fashion of tropical birds.  She was absurdly proud of herself for creating something that fantastic.  She was not frightened now.

            "I'm sorry I don't have any clothes on," she said; one must always be polite, even in dreams.

            He tilted his head, smiled.  One eye was sunlight, one shadow.  "You wouldn't, you know, not for this."  He held out his hand; a glove, embroidered with feathers kingfisher-bright, hid his pale skin.  Fingers turned, twisted, supple as the air that wreathed her skin.  A transparent globe appeared on the back of his hand; he made it dance upon his fingertips.

            "Do you want it now, Sarah?  Is this what you've come back for?"

            The globe spun; caught light.  Flashed…mesmerized, she reached for it and the fear returned, cold on her skin.

            "No!" she cried, and the spinning crystal shattered, shards flying to tangle in her hair, in his cape, to dash against the stones on which they stood.  "No!"

            The maze echoed her voice once more; sound sharp and wounding as the broken glass.  _No and no and no and --_

            _"NO!"_ she cried aloud, and woke with the word ringing in her ears, as if the echoes of the maze had been carried to reality with her.

#

            "I don't know why it scares me so much," she told Dr. Winterthur at their next session.  "I mean, it's just a stupid dream, after all.  Dreams can't hurt you."

            "Of course not, Sarah -- but you can hurt you, and your dreams -- anybody's dreams -- can be anything from a clue to a cry for help.  Now, can you tell me a little bit about your family?  How did you feel when your father remarried?"

            Sarah flushed hot even all these years later when she remembered her wild rage.  She hadn't made it easy for her father or her stepmother -- or for herself either.  But to her surprise, after the first hesitant sentences it was increasingly easy to tell Dr. Winterthur about it, words spilling faster and faster as she found herself telling things she'd thought long forgotten….

            When she was twelve, her mother had run off to be an actress again and her father had remarried -- and then there'd been a new baby brother.  Or, as she'd always punctiliously insisted, a _half-_ brother.  She'd been bitterly jealous and so miserable she'd wanted to hurt the world as it had hurt her…and one night when she was babysitting Toby she'd had a nightmare, one so bad she could never remember it afterwards.  Or perhaps it had been a sort of hallucination -- Sarah hadn't been sure.  But when she'd woken up the next morning, she knew that something dreadful had almost happened.  But it hadn't.  Toby was still in his crib, and yelling for his breakfast like he did every Sunday morning when the grownups wanted to sleep late.

            Sarah didn't even know why hearing him hell had been such a relief.  She'd gone and taken him downstairs and spooned Gerber oatmeal into his mouth and knew she had been very, very lucky.  They were both lucky to be sitting here in the big kitchen, with the pale morning sun slanting through the half-curtained windows.

            She didn't examine this feeling too closely.  You don't, at fourteen, especially if you're afraid of what you might find out.  The horrible feelings that had made her life heavy and her stomach hurt were gone.  That was enough.  She didn't want to know what she might have tried to do to Toby.  He was here now, smiling at her and rubbing his oatmeal carefully into the front of his red-and-white striped pajamas, and she loved him.

            Everything was going to be all right.

            "I just knew it was," said Sarah, frowning.  "That sounds silly, now, but I just _knew-- "_

            "And you don’t remember what happened that night?"

            Sarah shook her head.  "You probably don't believe me, but really, I don't.  I -- I can't remember a lot from then anyway -- you forget what happened when you were a little kid."

            "I see.  Do you feel any better, Sarah, now that you've told me all this?"

            Sarah considered the matter carefully.  "Not a hell of a lot," she finally said.

            Dr. Winterthur smiled.  "I'm going to make your day, Sarah.  Let's try some of that hypnosis you've been asking for."

            Sarah wasn't quite sure what to expect; 'watch the watch, Sarah'?  But Dr. Winterthur, as if reading her mind, said "Don't expect me to wave a watch around -- they only do that in the movies.  All right, Sarah, just lie back and pick something to concentrate on.  That pin in the wall, the light switch, the bell mobile, the crystal ball -- whatever attracts you most.  Just look at it and relax…."

            Sarah hadn't paid any attention to the hanging ornaments before.  Now she wondered how she'd missed them, particularly the faceted Austrian crystal globe that hung, gently swaying, from the ceiling.  It caught her attention as it caught the dim light, drawing her in, away from the quiet office, Dr. Winterthur's soothing voice urging her on….

            The crystal ball spun and twirled on its chain, casting rainbows over the walls, the ceiling, her body, splashing them with elusive light.  Turning and turning, as if to unheard music…and then to heard melody, sweet and haunting.  The music caught her heartbeat, guided her clumsy feet, as strong arms swung her into the dance….

            She was in the ballroom again, the ballroom in a crystal bubble, a trap blown by a Goblin King.  But this time there were no other dancers to spoil their dance; there was only Sarah and Jareth, and they moved as if they'd danced away their lives together.

            Masses of frothy skirt flowed in silver mist around her legs; gems wrapped her throat.  The curving walls of the bubble mirrored a fairy-tale princess, dancing through a fairy-tale world in the arms of a fairy-tale prince.  _'--choosing a path between the stars--'_

            He held her close, and closer still, and suddenly Sarah woke from a music-spun dream.  She knew this song, it had bewitched her once before, and she must be free--

            But it was too late.  The music changed, slowed, its beat more insistent.  The silver dress melted away like the mist it had mimicked; the gems were gone.  Sarah looked up into his cat-slanted eyes and knew he laughed at her fears.

            "Oh, Sarah, Sarah.  It's too late now.  You're not a child anymore."  Another turn, held in unbreakable bonds, and now his clothes were gone too, and they were covered only by her hair.  It swirled around them, clung soft as feathers, binding them skin to skin as their bodies swayed to music, slowly, always more slowly… enthralled by each other, by the mirrored music…and Sarah ceased to struggle.

            When at last he kissed her, it began simply enough; a long-delayed business transaction, perhaps, now to be accomplished and forgotten.  His mouth was crystal cool; faint childhood memories of marbles held in the mouth; the sharper, more urgent press of a wineglass to the lips.  Sarah relaxed under his hands, unstirred and unafraid -- was this all? -- and opened her mouth under his.

            With the electrical immediacy of summer thunder came the taste, scent, texture of peaches, summer-hot and voluptuous, wanton….  She lifted to him to receive his gift; all the golden orchard, dreaming beneath the caress of the sun -- and here no crystal rebuke would come, not here where heat and honeyed sweetness enfolded her like cocooning silk.

            He pulled back, stroked her cheek.  "This is what you wanted, Sarah."

            The words rasped at her serenity.  She was suddenly unsure.

            "Isn't it, Sarah?"  The insistent whisper made her uneasy, pushed at her until the music stopped, a tangle of final notes.

            "Yes -- no -- yes -- not from you -- "

            He was looking at her intently and she flushed furiously, miserably, trembling vermilion, scarlet as the harlot-hot silken cheeks of peaches --  He smiled and cupped her face with his cool fingertips, as if to press that betraying color back to concealment.  "You come to my Labyrinth, Sarah.  You come to me.  I am the Labyrinth, and there is no escape."

            "I don't care what you are!"  Sarah jerked back, pulling away from his clinging touch.  His fingers left trails of tingling fire on her cheeks.  "I -- I don't want you!"

            He tilted his head, silvered hair floating about his head like silk.  Like feathers.  "Oh, don't you, now?"

            And suddenly she knew it all.  She was back, she was fourteen again and facing the Goblin King among the shards of his broken crystal trap.  She remembered, now.  She knew the way out.  "You have no power over me!"

            She waited, the words spoken that would free her.  Nothing happened.  The floor was still diamond-hard beneath her feet; the air did not melt and flow.  The words had not freed her, not this time, and suddenly Sarah was afraid.  She took a step backwards, holding out her hands in protest.  "No!  This isn't real!  Let go of me!"

            He shrugged, and held his hands out to her, palms up.  "I can't."

            Their fingertips almost touched; the air between them shimmered.  Waves of heat?  "Why not?  You're the Goblin King -- you don't want me."

            "I thought you would eat the peach, and stay."  His answer made no sense to her.  "But you were too young to forget, and now you're too old.  It's too late, Sarah."

            "Too late?  Too late for what?"  _Wake up, Sarah.  This is a dream.  Only a dream.  If you work at it hard enough you can wake up -- think of the alarm going off --_

            "Too late," he repeated.

            She had to wake up, to leave this place of strange brilliance and cold heat.  "Yes," she said.  With all the willpower she possessed, she stepped back, away from him.  "Yes, it's late, I have to go -- my alarm is ringing, I must wake up -- "

            Finally, it worked.  The Goblin King withdrew his hands.  The air swirled between them.  He wavered, a faulty reflection in an ancient mirror, marred by time.

            "Leave me alone, Sarah," he whispered as his image shattered and the dream ended.  "Leave me alone…."

            Insistent light splashed her eyelids.  Sarah's eyes opened and the ballroom shrank to an Austrian crystal ball revolving placidly on a chain.  She sat up, struggling to breathe, ignoring Dr. Winterthur's concerned voice.  She remembered what had happened that long-ago night, now.

            The Goblin King.  The Labyrinth…he had stolen Toby, and she --

            "Sarah."  Dr. Winterthur, patient.  "Sarah, what happened to upset you?  What did you remember?"

            -- she had gone into the Labyrinth and won her brother back from Jareth, King of the Goblins.  How could she have forgotten?  Unless she really _were_ crazy and it was all a delusion --  no.  It was too real, clear as a tale set down for her eyes only.  And even if it were a delusion, she certainly wasn't crazy enough to tell anyone about it.

            "Sarah, what did you see?"

            "Nothing," she said.  _Nothing?  Nothing?  Nothing, tra-la-la -- ?_   Jareth's remembered voice beat in her blood.  But why was the Goblin King still haunting her life?  She beaten him, damn it; he'd given her thirteen hours to solve his Labyrinth, and she had, and she'd won, and it wasn't right or reasonable --

            "Nothing?" said Dr. Winterthur, plainly unconvinced.

            Sarah shook her head, her thoughts far from the quiet office and the comfort of modern science.  "Just -- some sort of nightmare," she said.  "I -- I don't really remember what."  There was a difference between being crazy and being crazy enough to admit it to a doctor.

            "I see," said Dr. Winterthur.  "Very well, Sarah -- we'll try again next time."  He looked at her sharply.  "Do you think you'd like a prescription for a mild tranquilizer?"

            "What?  Oh, no thanks.  I'll be fine.  I am fine.  I've got to go; I'll see you next week."  She could hardly  wait to get out into the street, to see if the crazy mixed-up goblin memories stood up to the light and noise.

            They did.  If anything, the memories were clearer now, out of the soothing dimness of the doctor's office.  It was him, it was the Goblin King doing it all, it must be.  Jareth, King of the Goblins, with his crystals and his tricks and traps.  The Labyrinth stood clear in her mind, but he was clearer.  Jareth.  _I am the labyrinth, and there is no escape. . . ._

            "The hell there isn't!" said Sarah.  "You're not going to drive _me_ crazy, damn it!"

            She was too upset to go back to her office; luckily, she'd said 'doctor's appointment -- maybe tests'.  That could take all day.  The hell with the office anyway.  Her sanity was more important.  She intended to fight for it.  She yanked her pocketbook strap over her shoulder and headed for the nearest subway.

            She stopped at the fruit stand on her corner, in front of the bin labeled 'California peaches -- $1.29 a pound.'  Stubborn purpose alone let her handle the irritating velvet globes; she held her breath as she dropped half-a-dozen into the bag.  She slammed the full bag onto the scale; the middle-aged woman beside her in line winced.  "It doesn't matter," said Sarah defiantly.  "I like bruised peaches.  They taste better that way."

            She made one more stop before she reached her apartment.  At the local liquor store, after a brief discussion with the man behind the counter – "I don’t care what it is, as long as it’s got peaches in it." – she bought a large bottle of Ruinite Natural Peach and a small one of something billed as a Fuzzy Navel.  The fruit alone should be enough, but she wasn’t taking any chances.  This time, she was going to get to the bottom of this.

            This resolution carried her until she was back home in her apartment and the plastic bags were on the kitchen table.  She stared at them a moment, then reached in and forced herself to lift out one of the peaches.  The bruised fruit oozed; juice dripped over her fingers.  The room reeked of the odor.

            Sarah swallowed hard as her mouth filled with saliva; her stomach heaved.  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and raised the peach to her lips.  _This is stupid – why am I doing this?  It won’t work – come on, Sarah, just one bite – it won’t poison you –_

            She couldn’t do it.  Hand shaking, she let the peach roll out of her fingers onto the counter.

            If someone had handed her the peach as she came out of Dr. Winterthur’s office, she could have done it then.  But too much time had passed since that moment of angry determination; clarity had blurred.  Now it all seemed ridiculous.

            "Jareth, King of the Goblins," she said, looking down at the rejected peach.  Aloud, it sounded even sillier.  Oh, she remembered him now, all right – she’d summoned him up from the pages of an Edwardian children’s book she’d once adored.  She’d adored _him_ – of _course_ he was the ideal fantasy figure to come and save fourteen-year-old Sarah from poor little Toby.  _Solve my Labyrinth --_   Why, the book was even called THE LABYRINTH.

            Yes.  Now she remembered.  A children’s book, read long ago, at a very impressionable age – briefly, she wondered what had ever happened to it.  It had been – red?  She thought it was red.

            "Boy, what a jerk," said Sarah flatly.  There was no Labyrinth, there were no goblins.  There was no Jareth.  He was only a fantasy figure she’d once played silly imaginary games with.  It was all dreams, hallucinations, products of a hyperactive subconscious.  Whatever was wrong was wrong with _her—_

            Jareth, King of the Goblins, demon lover – no wonder she always ran through those dreams naked -- !  Cheeks feverishly scarlet, Sarah pushed the peach back into the plastic bag, twisted the top shut, and flung the entire bag into the crisper at the bottom of the refrigerator.  Repressed, inhibited, crazy –

            She slammed the refrigerator door shut.  "Imagine thinking Toby was really stolen by goblins.  It would serve the stupid goblins right!"

            Yes, just imagine….  She grabbed up her purse and stalked out of her apartment without bothering to change from her work clothes.  She wasn’t going to sit around letting her overactive imagination run wild – somewhere in this city there had to be at least one mindless blow-it-up and shoot-it-down movie playing, and she was going to be watching it.

            She got back from sitting twice through ALIENS: THE FINAL SOLUTION with her ears still ringing from the special audio effects.  It was late; past midnight.  She fell into bed hoping only that she wouldn’t sleep through her alarm the next morning and that she wouldn’t be chased through her dreams by indestructible aliens with double sets of razor teeth that dripped acid….

            _Goblins would be a godsend in comparison,_ she thought vaguely as she fell asleep.

#

            She dreamed again, but this time it was different.  She was fourteen-year-old Sarah again, and she was not in the Labyrinth.  She’d never been in this desolate place before.

            "Do you know what you’re doing, Sarah?"  The voice came from behind her, but when she turned, no one was there.

            "Are you sure this is what you want?  Be careful, Sarah!"  Again she was alone, while the voices cried out around her like disembodied spirits of the night; warnings and suggestions and all the echoing emptiness around her like a stage before the movie set is built; like a play before the curtain rises.

            _I DON’T know what I’m doing!  I don’t know what I’ve done!  Help me!_

            But there was no help, orders had been given and it was too late to change them; the curtain would rise and Sarah would play the title role, just as she’d wanted; just as she’d _always_ wanted –

            But she didn’t know any of her lines.  What could she say?  _Jareth?_   She knew he was here somewhere; he couldn’t hurt her, not in her dreams – she wanted him to come and give her familiar nightmares that didn’t carry such a crushing weight of failure –

            -- that he couldn’t come.  He couldn’t help her.  She had locked him away and no one could help her, no one –

            -- but her --  Sarah sat up and looked at her alarm clock.  The large red numbers glowing in the dark said 2:17.  All that work on Jareth-sent nightmares, and now it wasn’t crystal illusions keeping her awake, it was just her own mind.  And then her dreams had the unmitigated gall to have her try to find Jareth in them – to help her.  That was a real laugh.

            Jareth wouldn’t help her, Sarah told herself as her eyes closed again.  Jareth was Jareth’s friend; he didn’t care about her….  She slept again, and if she dreamed it was only of echoing mocking laughter that turned too soon into the dispassionate noise of the alarm clock calling her into the world once more.

#

            "Can you tell me about it, Sarah?"  Dr. Winterthur sat, calm as a jade Buddha, and waited.

            Sarah fidgeted with the handle of her pocketbook.  "Well— "  _Oh, come on, Sarah, he’s a doctor, a psychiatrist.  He’s heard it all before.  Twice.  You’re paying good money to tell him all this._   She continued to twist the leather straps around her fingers.  "Well, I’ve told you about the nightmares, and – "

            "Would it be easier for you if you wrote it down?"

            She shook her head.  "No, that’s okay.  I mean, this is what I came for, right?"  She looked at him, but Dr. Winterthur said nothing.  After a few moments, the silence  became unbearable; she was compelled to fill it with words.  As before, one word led to another, until they were tumbling out of their own accord.  Not nightmares, this time, but her miserable attempts at adult sexuality, admitted to someone else for the first time in years.

            After a certain point it began to seem hysterically funny; farce piled upon farce, like a silent comedy.  The night of her twenty-first birthday, when she’d tried to seduce Robert, or vice versa –

            " -- but then -- would you believe an _owl_ flew into the bedroom -- it must have been lost or something and come right through the screen, poor thing -- and -- well -- "  She found herself giggling, and said indignantly, "It wasn't _funny,_ damn it!"  It hadn't been, either; she still remembered the terror of the owl's dive-bombing attacks, and carried as scars the tracks its claws had marked on her shoulders.

            "It must have been very frightening for you," the doctor suggested.

            "Yes," said Sarah.  "It was.  But that's silly.  It was only an owl."

            Dr. Winterthur smiled.  "And not an avenging angel with a flaming sword."  He glanced at his watch.  "All right, Sarah -- next week we can try the hypnosis again.  And if you need me -- "

            "I'll call.  Really I will."  She didn't think it would be necessary; she'd had no real dreams since their last session.  Her memories of going into a Goblin King's Labyrinth and rescuing her brother remained, but the conviction of their reality had gone.  Obviously a last-ditch effort by her subconscious to -- to do what?

            Well, whatever it was, she'd beat it.  Her subconscious wasn't going to have Sarah Cunningham to kick around anymore.

            She was smiling when she walked into her office; the expression froze on her face when she saw Sam standing in the hallway.  Of course -- he must have been here to see Maggie.  Her first impulse was to pivot and walk away.  Then she stiffened her shoulders, refusing to give in to what instantly threatened to be terminal embarrassment.

            Sam made it easy for her.  He smiled, and nodded, and said, "Hi, Sarah.  How's it going?"  No one could possibly guess from his casually friendly manner how badly their final date had gone.

            "Okay," she said.

            "Good," he said, and hesitated.  "Look, Sarah -- I was thinking -- maybe we could get together for dinner again?  Just dinner," he added with a grin.  "No obligation."

            Sarah felt herself soften, relax.  He was so nice!  Maybe now, now that she was seeing Dr. Winterthur and taking charge of her own mind -- she'd like to see Sam, to talk.  Maybe eventually --

            _I wouldn't, if I were you._   Clear and sharp, the unspoken words cut through her mind.  Not a vague whisper this time; an outright threat.

            "Maybe we could," she told Sam, furious and frightened and anxious to get away -- from what, she wasn't sure.

            "Great," he said.  "Call me."

            "I will.  I will.  I've got to get back to work."  Sarah twisted past him, half-ran for the sanctuary of her own familiar office.  There she flung the door closed and leaned back against it.  This was too much!  Couldn't she even _talk_ to a man now?

            The thin lines left by the owl's talons seven years ago stung, as if in angry answer.  A new development in the syndrome; Sarah noted it with an odd detachment.  The Goblin King sometimes appeared as an owl, if she remembered her fantasy accurately.  And he was angry with her; interfering more and more in her life, trying to drive her --

            Where?

            "Okay," she told her office.  "I can take a hint."  She didn't care if it was crazy; she was going to carry the war to the enemy tonight.  If there was a Goblin King, she was going to face him down, and if he gave her any trouble, she'd -- she'd just call her psychiatrist.  What could the King of the Goblins do, anyway?  He was an Edwardian demon lover; elegant and circumscribed.  Not a Stephen King horror of blood and disembowelment.  The Labyrinth was safe.

            Safe?  A buried memory stirred sluggishly and subsided.  And if there wasn't a Goblin King -- well, something had to be causing those voices.  Decision made, Sarah opened her office door and sat down to finish off the day's work.

#

            She had remembered putting peaches in the refrigerator; she had forgotten it was nearly a week ago.  The fruit was almost past overripe, but what difference did it make?  She hated peaches anyway.  She hated Jareth.

            She didn't give herself time to hesitate, to think.  Grim determination fueled by righteous indignation let her open her mouth and sink her teeth into the yielding fruit.

            She expected the peach to be cloying-sweet, to make her sick.  But it was cold from its week's refrigeration, and tasted of nothing.  Then the fruit warmed to her mouth and suddenly the peach was summer on her tongue, honey-tart.  _'I'll feed you mornings of gold . . . .'_

            She chewed, and swallowed, and bit again, letting the juice run down her wrist.  How had she called him before, when she was fourteen?  _Goblin King, Goblin King --_ no, that wasn't right --

            "I wish I knew what to say to make him show up," she told the peach crossly.  She closed her eyes and self-consciously spoke the next words that floated to the surface of her mind.  "I wish the King of the Goblins would come when I called him, damn it!"

            "You don't have to shout," said a cross voice just behind her.  "What do you want now?"

            Sarah's eyes flew open as she spun around, dropping the peach.  The Goblin King stood there, tall and brilliant and exotic, his eyes amber and ice; incredibly out -of-place on the linoleum of her kitchen floor.  His pale eye glittered; he looked angry.

            The Goblin King here in her kitchen -- although she'd called him up herself, it was impossible.  The world swayed crazily.  "What -- what are you doing here?"

            "Sarah -- "  His voice was an irritated sigh; he _was_ angry.  "You called me.  Deliberately.  With malice aforethought, I believe they say.  And you dare ask what I want?"

            "I -- I didn't ask that."  Sarah was more shaken than she'd expected to be.

His head tilted.  "No?"

            She shook her head.  "No.  I -- I asked what you were doing _here._   I thought--"

            "Oh, you don't like the setting."  He reached out and put a hand on her wrist.  "Is this better?"

            Wind whipped through her hair; hot wind, summer wind.  They stood on the hill that overlooked the Labyrinth.  The sky glowed like bronze; the hillside was thick with bushes half leaf, half thorns.  Now it was Sarah who looked out of place.  Dress for success suit, little silk tie, good leather pumps -- she could have served as a model for the perfect Yuppie With MBA.

            "Well, Sarah?  Are you happy now?"

            His fingers still wrapped her wrist.  Sarah pulled away.  Her skin was sticky with peach juice; it made his hand and her wrist reluctant to part.

            "You know I'm not," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

            "What a pity," he said.  "Why not?"  
            _WHY NOT?_   Outraged, Sarah struggled to find words strong enough for her purpose.  There weren't any.  "Because you won't leave me alone, damn it!  Why can't you just go away and stay out of my love life and _leave me alone?"_

            He strode away a pace, looking out over his Labyrinth.  The hot wind caught his dark cape and flung it wide.  Light flashed from its folds.  "I might ask you the same question.  I am tired of catering to your whims."  The wind carried his words clearly.

            _"My_ whims!"  Sarah put her hands on her hips and glared.  "Look, I don't know what you think you're talking about, but all _I_ want is to get out of here.  Out of this."

            He turned, cape swinging.  "Oh, is it?  You pick an odd way of going about it, I must say."  He moved toward her, his eyes fire angry, ice angry.  "You asked me to perform a simple task, two sevens ago.  I performed it.  And what thanks have I gotten?  No peace in my own Labyrinth."

            Sarah refused to cower.  She was not fourteen now.  She had beaten him before, and she could win again.  "You mean the time you stole Toby, I suppose.  But I got him back fair and square.  It's not right for you to keep _at_ me like this.  It's -- it's not in the rules, damn it!"

            He shrugged.

            "It's _not!"_

            "And you make all the rules in the world, I suppose?"

            "No, really, it's not.  I solved the puzzle of the Labyrinth, and reached the castle beyond the Goblin City and -- and I took back the child you had stolen."  It was odd how phrases not thought of in fourteen years came easily back to her tongue.  "You have no power over me, I told you that, I _won -- "_

            "You reclaimed what I stole."  He folded his arms, again angled his head in that birdlike tilt.  "Now take back what you left here, Sarah.  Take it, and think no more of me."

            "What?  I don't understand."

            He came closer, swung an arm around her.  His cape wrapped her softly as he bent his head and whispered into her ear, his cheek almost touching hers.  "Look, Sarah."  His other hand swept out, offering the Labyrinth.  "It's there.  Find it, and set us both free."

            Sarah's blood pounded wildly in her throat.  "Find what?  I didn't lose anything here!"

            He swooped away, cape flapping and pulling, tangling her hair.  "Go, then."  His outline blurred, feathered in the harsh light.

            "No, wait!"  Sarah pushed back her hair, breathing heavily.  "Look, can't you give me whatever it is?  I'll take it and go away -- "

            The Goblin King shook his head.  "It's not in the rules."  The air shimmered between them, and Sarah knew he would be gone again in another heartbeat -- and she would still have solved nothing.

            "Can't you just tell me what it is -- please!  How can I guess?"

            "Sarah, Sarah -- don't you even know what you want…want…want…?"

            The wind flung her hair across her face, blinding her; Sarah beat it back and stood staring down at the bag of overripe peaches on her kitchen table.  One lay on the floor, half-eaten and smashed by its fall.  The room was redolent with their heavy scent.

            "No!  No, it's not _fair!"_   Sarah bent, scooped up the fallen peach, and took a frantic bite from it.  _"Jareth!_   You come back here!"

            But it didn't work.  And eventually Sarah had to give up.  She was tired to the bone, and there was a limit to the number of peaches you could eat, hoping to call back a goblin king.  So she said the hell with it and threw the rest of the peaches in the garbage, along with the wine and the bottle of Fuzzy Navel.  She'd leave King Jareth alone if he'd leave her alone.  That was fair, wasn't it?

            But what had she left in his Labyrinth?

#

            The question nagged at her that night, making her toss and turn, forbidding sleep.  It was almost funny; tonight, when she would have welcomed another dream, hoping to see Jareth again, to find out what he meant, she couldn't sleep.  Ha, ha.

            And so here she was at two o'clock in the morning, sitting at her kitchen table scribbling notes with her Cross pen in her Daytimer.  Something she'd left in the Labyrinth when she was fourteen.  But what, damn it?

            She prided herself on being practical, taking the right steps.  She wasn't sure what the right steps were, in this case, but setting everything down in outline form, as if for a report to her department head, might help.  It was slow going; her memories vivid but oddly elusive.

            Finally she had a list.  Garnet ring.  Plastic bracelet.  Lipstick.  There was a question mark after the last item.

            And that was all.

            Nothing important, nothing to bind her to the Goblin King's Labyrinth all these years.  Sarah ran her fingers through her hair, completing its disarray.  Maybe the ring she'd -- what had she done with it?  Oh, yes -- she'd given it to that funny old man with the bird on his head.  Maybe that ring had been magic?

            When she found she was seriously considering the possibility, she slammed the Daytimer closed.  "Oh, get real," she told herself crossly.  "A ring you bought in Macy's?"  It didn't seem very likely.

            If only the Goblin King would stop talking only in riddles, damn it!  She'd be glad, no, ecstatic, to take away whatever it was.  Did he think she _liked_ his cryptic games?

            The kitchen clock proclaimed it to be 3:55 a.m.  Suddenly heavy-eyed, Sarah set down her pen and went back into the bedroom, where she stood staring at herself in the dresser mirror.  Cotton pajama top, rumpled dark hair, purple-brown shadowing her puffy eyes.  She didn't look or feel much like the heedless girl who'd been so certain of everything, who had once before solved a Goblin King's puzzle.  Of course, she'd had help then….

            She put her hands on the dresser and leaned forward, intent on the mirror.  "Hoggle?  Sir Didymus?  Ludo?  I need you."  Nothing happened; the mirror reflected only Sarah and the room behind her.  Hot-faced, feeling like a fool, she turned away and flung herself onto the bed.  She felt betrayed, which was ridiculous.  But they'd promised to come, if she ever needed them.  Maybe it had been too long.  Maybe they were gone, or had forgotten.  She had, after all.

            Or maybe -- maybe she didn't need them.

            Sarah sat up again; wrapped the covers around her for support and comfort.  With the wisdom of hindsight, she realized now that no one in the Labyrinth had ever actually lied, however misleading their remarks.  Even Jareth had told only the truth; he was a master of misdirection, not of falsehood.

            Logical.  The Labyrinth was very logical.  Call if you need us --  she had called, and they had not come.  Therefore, she did not need them.  Therefore, this was something she must solve alone.  Childhood allies could not help her now.

            Great.  Well, at least she'd figured that out.  Now, if Jareth were telling the truth -- truth twisted inside out and tied up in riddles -- what had he actually said?

            Crystal spinning -- _'Is this what you've come for, Sarah--?  Leave me alone, Sarah--  No piece in my own Labyrinth--  I am tired, tired-- '_

            Not as tired as she was.  Slow hot tears spilled over, made salt trails to her mouth.  _' --a crystal, nothing more -- but if you turn it this way -- '_

            Was that what she'd left in the Labyrinth?  Her dreams?  But she was an adult now; dreams were for children.  She had everything an adult could want, except for --

            "Love," said Sarah.  She could not have adult love, adult passion.  Not until she solved another riddle.  "Why?" she said to the empty bedroom; the tears came faster now.  "Why, why, _why?"_

            What had she ever done that would let him do this to her?  Had calling on him once given him a hold on her forever--  No.  That wasn't right.  He'd said if she found what she had left it would set her free -- set them both free.  Both….

            "You have no power over me," she said.  It had been true; she had gotten Toby back.  Why was it no longer true?  "You have no power over me, none, none!"

            She would summon him again and tell him so.  She would accept his challenge and solve the Labyrinth once more and --  "Goblin King -- Jareth -- Damn it, I want -- "

            What?  She sounded hysterical even to herself.  Anyone else would be justified in calling her crazy, sitting here at dawn trying to call back a Goblin King.  And for what?  He'd give her thirteen hours to look for something; thirteen hours was traditional.  Sarah frowned -- thirteen hours, that was right -- but how did she know?  She almost caught the answer, but it was gone; she was too upset to hold it.

            In any case, it didn't matter.  She would _not_ call Jareth, not until she knew what she was looking for.  It was probably in his castle; his castle beyond the Goblin City -- but if she didn't know what _it_ was, how could she find it in thirteen times thirteen hours?

            And if she didn't find it -- then what?  _' -- your baby brother becomes one of us forever -- '_   What was the price of failure this time?

            As if in answer, her alarm rang, its electronic chime piercing, insistent.  It was six o'clock, the night gone.  If only the Goblin King and his Labyrinth were gone as well, gone for good.

            But Goblin King or no, it was a weekday morning and she had to go to work.  Sarah groaned and climbed wearily out of bed.  She'd take two aspirins and drink black coffee.  And maybe later she'd think of something.

            She didn't, but she managed to get through most of the day.  At 3:30 her boss called her into his office.  "Sarah, you look like hell -- I know you've been working too much overtime on the Henson project.  Go home early, get some sleep.  Take a couple of vacation days."

            She protested, automatically, but he overruled her.

            "Nobody's indispensable, Sarah, and we don't want you out sick for two weeks.  We'll manage."

            Sarah smiled weakly; the thought of rest was intoxicating.  She was so tired she could hardly stand straight.  She gave up and let them call a taxi to take her home.

#

            And home was where she spend the next two days.  Her sleep was nightmare-free; dreamless.  It should have been blissful reprieve, but for some reason it left her with skin that seemed to itch, a restlessness as bone-deep as fatigue.  She could not sit still; she put on her Reeboks and walked, hoping to tire herself into serenity, hoping it would help her think.

            Across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, looking down through the cracks between the boards at the glistening water far below…its sparkle made her think of the Labyrinth.  Everything did, now.

            Sarah walked briskly, trying to enjoy the sun and wind on her face.  The Labyrinth…what could possibly still connect her to that place of childish magic and mystery?  She stopped, leaned over the railing to watch the cars zip past just below her.  Hermetically sealed, air-conditioned little boxes speeding along, people trapped inside.

            "You're a fine one to talk about being trapped," she told herself, and walked on.

            Still trapped, still tied to Jareth's Labyrinth fourteen years later -- why?  Whatever it was, neither she nor the Goblin King seemed to control it.  That must drive Jareth wild; he'd always been so -- smug?  Self-assured?

            No, not smug  -- impressive, his appearances always timed to cause a quiver in the stomach, a catch in the throat.  The omnipotent Goblin King, running everything, always with new terrors to throw at her like a pack of playing cards -- _'And you, Sarah -- how are you enjoying my Labyrinth?'_

            Almost as if he really wanted to know.  What a concept.  But she could not let him win, ever -- _'It's a piece of cake.'_   What a mistake that thoughtless remark had almost been!

            Thoughtless -- something she had thoughtlessly left in the Labyrinth -- something to find so that Jareth would release her, let her --

            "Grow up," said Sarah, startled.  Yes, that was it, let her grow up and finally put away whatever childhood dreams she still clung to, all unknowing.  Grow up and be normal, so that when she again met someone like Sam he could --

            He could touch her.  Make love to her, damn it!  She was tired of being chaste, as inviolably pure as a safety-sealed bottle of aspirin.

            She was cold, she was lonely; she wanted to be unwrapped, to take him to bed, to hold him close and ruffle that feathered hair -- No _.  Oh, no._

            Sarah fought the thought even as it took form; its gorgeous self-indulgence revolted her.  The Goblin King -- once her perfect fantasy -- _No!  That was a long time ago!  I'm done with fantasy._

            Wind off the East River whipped the ends of her silk scarf across her eyes.  It blinded her as Jareth had blinded her:  vividly, without effacing his image.

            _Too bad, Sarah.  Fantasy isn't done with you._

            Slowly, she untied her scarf and pulled it through her hands, thinking hard.  She had to be mature about this, logical; face it as an adult, squarely and without coyness.

            The King of the Goblins…he'd been her first dream lover, the first companion of her fantasies when she'd been old enough to play at love, when her body and mind had changed and unsettling new passions added strange spice to her make-believe.

            Damn it, if only she'd never read that stupid book -- she wondered, briefly, what had happened to THE LABYRINTH.  There might be a clue in its pages.  She tried to think, but the book was lost to her.  She had lost so many things in the black pit that had opened when her mother had run off to be Linda Williams, actress, again -- and left Sarah behind, valueless.  A discarded prop.

            From the day her mother hand gone to the day King Jareth took away Toby -- time lost, memories lost.  A two-year-long blank.  Just as well, considering the few things she could summon up from that unpleasant void….

            Like the Goblin King.  She'd managed to forget him, but apparently he hadn't forgotten her.  Sarah stood at the halfway point of the Brooklyn Bridge, twisting her silk scarf round and round her unquiet hands.

            Her first fantasies of adult passion had used him as their focus.  Time-blurred images came to her mind; delicious unformed desires, in retrospect bland as cream.  Kisses sweet as soda, and just as innocent…she smiled wryly.  One had so little imagination, at fourteen.

            _Think, Sarah_ ….  Even the Goblin King had told her to think.  _Logical -- Sarah_ frowned and absently tied the scarf in a knot, pulled it tight, unpicked it again.  Her first in fantasy -- did that mean King Jareth must be her first lover in fact?

            It made sense, of a sort.  Summon up her dream lover, give herself to the incubus she had somehow created, and it would set them both free.

            That was the answer.  It must be.  It had the harsh, absurd logic of fairy tales.

            But how?  Even adult imagination failed her.  Oh, she knew the mechanics of what had been denied to her -- books and magazines and movies meant that the modern virgin need not be ignorant.  But with Jareth?  Do all that with Jareth, King of the Goblins?  Heat flooded her body, made her hands and cheeks tingle; the very thought was embarrassing beyond words.

            And what if he didn't want her?

            "He'll want me," she said grimly; a promise to herself.  "If he wants to be free badly enough -- oh, he'll want me all right."

            She began to laugh, with an undernote of hysteria that made other bridge-walkers curve well away from her.  That, too, seemed funny; Sarah opened her hands and let the wind take her scarf.  The silk square billowed and flew off, dipping and swooping past the highway and cars to float gently down to the river a hundred feet below.

            She watched it out of sight beyond the cars, and then turned and walked back toward Brooklyn Heights.  _Solved, settled, over, done --_ the words seemed to keep time with her feet, and giddy relief gripped her.  It was simple, easy --  _What did you leave in the Labyrinth, Sarah?_

            "Common sense," she told the sky.  And tonight she would take it back, and get one with her life without alarms and excursions -- or Goblin Kings.

            A sudden darkening of the sky; rain threatened.  Sarah looked at the warning clouds, threw adult cautions to the winds, and ran -- really running, not a demure and proper jog.  She would buy peaches, and tonight there would be Jareth…he would come to her….

            But when she actually sat there on her bed, dressed in her best silk-satin teddy and robe, and looked at the peach, she couldn't do it.  Elation seemed to be sucked out of her body, leaving her only flat embarrassment.  She would not call him; she was too tired tonight and she had to be at work tomorrow.  She was in no shape to deal with a fictional character.  Her dreams were one thing -- but if she called him here and he only laughed at her -- ?

            Sarah rubbed her thumb over the peach.  Fuzz.  Velvety.  Easy….  She set the peach down beside the clock-radio and lay back, trying to think.  Then she let sleep overtake her, knowing that tonight she was safe.

#

            That night she dreamed of the Labyrinth again.  She stood naked before the gate; it was closed to her.  She reached out, seeking entry.  The gate was cool under her hands, opened to her without a struggle.  She went in.

            The maze stretched away on either side of her, awaiting her choice.  This way, or that way?

            "Which way?" she said, and her voice echoed plangently, whispering back to her, "Neither way."

            She turned, looked out the open gate to the hillside beyond.  Not that way either.  What she sought lay within, not without.  She turned her back on the way out of the maze and faced the choice once more.

            Not left, not right, not back.  That left -- forward.  She took the steps that brought her to the wall.  The wall was stone, and solid.

            The gate had been solid too.  She closed her eyes and stretched out her hands.

            "Let me in," she said.  "Please."

            The wall rippled away under her hands; she walked forward, into the embracing caress of air like a lover's hands, and opened her eyes.

            She was in the ballroom again.  The crystal room spun lonely, its glamour softened to seduction.  It did not dazzle the eye now.  It was outshone by the Goblin King.

            He stood at the very center of the gently spinning world, a cloak of white peacock feathers wrapping him close, trailing on the cloudy-opal floor.  "Sarah…" He made her name a whisper of silk.  "So you've come to me."

            She knew what he wanted, now.  She would give it to him, and be free.  "Yes," she said, and he smiled and held out his hands.

            His body was an elegant thing; carved of moonstone and opal to catch the light, seduce the eye.  She waited, but she was not afraid.  Her blood ran smooth and cool as the flow of time; neither passion's fire nor terror's ice disturbed it.

            She was safe.  Sarah went to him, let him fold her in his peacock's wings, ivory-pale; moon-pale as his skin.

            He lifted her in arms that made her substanceless as shadow, set her down again on cushions that welcomed her body.  Then he knelt beside her and the feathered wings fell away, taking the last barrier with them.  "So you found it at last," he said, and kissed the palms of her hands.  "I've been waiting a long time, Sarah."

            She did not know what he meant, but it didn't matter.  Her self was gone, all judgment fled; unconnected imagery flowed through her mind, passageless as carp in a cloistered fountain.  White peacocks and all the perfumes of Arabia and lights dancing in her eyes as the ballroom whirled and turned…docile and memoryless, Sarah lay back and waited, and watched.

            Slender or gaunt -- she couldn't decide; his body smooth as a dancer's at rest, pale with a rose-gold heat over the long bones and amethyst shadows painting the jeweled, lapidary hollows of his flesh.  Long fingers, long hands; mannered, explicit, and adept, and the lapis tracery of veins so vivid she could almost hear the chiming pulses, feel the remorseless caress of blood beneath the skin.  A wild thing, for all the careful artistry of his hands, his body.

            Fur, or feathers, or simply her blinded eyes softened the shadows of him; the thigh tensed as he knelt beside her, the spread compassing hand splayed against that thigh as he bent to her.  "Your dreams, Sarah."  A susurration feather-soft to the ear; a cheek like moonshadow pressed to hers.  "I promised to show you your dreams."

            _No,_ she thought.  This was not hers, this was not Sarah.  A protest gone in a heartbeat as light flared against his cheek, his shoulder, a galaxy of scintillant fire; chatoyant frostfire brilliance like a river of stars leading to the sea.

            A creature of air, Sarah thought as the light that called stars from his skin etched supple shadow and lines of passion on his face; mockery in the mobile, knowing mouth.

            All this mannered confection of joint and sinew, tendon, ball and socket, hinged and finished and coupled like a miraculous clockwork, each part completed and burnished to white-bronze efficiency.  The stilled leap of muscles, the violent coursing of the blood, the velvet arch and weight of him….  Sarah looked on Jareth's nakedness with the child's innocent desire to catalog the world; with the artist's chaste passion to unveil and rebuilt the mysteries.

            The light he gathered flashed and danced to become a stinging hail across her face, her throat, her breast, and the detachment she had felt vanished in an icy rain that left only heat behind it.  His knee pressed between her thighs, cool against her feverishness; she opened to him with a sense of immanence.

            "This is the way, Sarah," he said.

            _Is it?_ she wondered, but the thought was swept away as he gathered her close and set those long and artful hands to draw music from her body.

            His touch made her gasp, her dreamlike acceptance destroyed by the too-reality of the sensations; the desire to hold Jareth, to keep him with her forever and ever and ever.  Memories of past awkwardness shattered before she could set them free to hind her.  The sensation of speed, of motion, pressed her into the cushions and painted orient flames against her skin; the flames were his hands, their touch almost painful as they taught her the new-born sensitivity of her body.

            Her breath caught in her throat; she dared greatly and looked into his eyes:  crystal, too-bright, brilliant with a message she did not want to read.  Sarah buried her face against the silken pulsing join of neck and shoulder, hiding from the light.  He could do with her what he wished, and let her go.

            His skin was cool, elusively fragrant.  She rubbed her face against him, trying to be Sarah still in the Goblin King's last cruel trap.  Panic made her stiff -- how could he be real for her?  And if he could not, would not, finish this thing between them she could not bear it.

            "Yes, Jareth.  Finish it.  Set me free."  He was sweet under her whispering lips, honey-gold as a sun-ripe peach --

            She was fling back; her hair clung round his arms like the lover she was not.  A swirl of light; he was armored in his feather cloak once more.  A face like a bird of prey; distant, proud.  "Sarah, Sarah, can't you make up your mind?"  Anger and despair turned his face to a mask; stylized, unreal.  He reached out to her, his hands claw-tight on her shoulders.  "Why are you doing this to us?"

            "I'm not!" she cried, and the world began to slip away.  "No!  Jareth, help me -- "  She reached out, but everything was spinning, spinning; feathers beat at her and crystal light clashed --

            -- the raucous, unspeakable noise of the alarm clock ripped at her ears.  _The world spinning round --_ her sleep-swollen eyes opened to a glittering ballroom; its dazzlement flickered away, leaving only a mirrored dresser.  The Goblin King's angry desperate hands became her flowered percale sheets, swathing her stranglingly tight.

            He was gone again and it was all for nothing, nothing -- she had only made things worse; she had ruined it all and she did not know how or why.  He was cruel, cruel beyond words, and the throbbing sense of time lost, self lost, was tangible, a pain that cut the nerves like winter ice and ravished her aching body.

            The alarm continued its emotionless high-pitched beeping.  With a swift moment that knocked everything off her nightstand, Sarah grabbed the clock-radio and hurled it at her mirror.  The clock-radio flew to the end of its electrical tether and crashed to the floor.  The alarm did not stop.

            Sarah buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

#

            Several cups of coffee and a long hot shower later, Sarah thought she might live.  She supposed that was a good thing.  _'Go home, get some rest'_ \-- that was impossible.  Her nerves were still tight-wound from last night's dream -- if dream it had been.  She was never sure anymore.

            At nine she called the office and told them she needed the rest of the week off, too -- she would be back in Monday.  Promised; guaranteed.  Sarah thought that was a safe enough statement.  By then she had to be ready to take up the threads of her life again or admit that King Jareth had won whatever strange warped game he was playing with her.

            _Won._   The word sounded wrong, somehow.  Jareth wasn't playing games --

            Oh, wasn't he?  Sarah picked up the nearest object -- a book -- and flung it savagely at the wall.  The book hit the wall with a dull thud and left a faint smudge on the pale paint.

            The violence of the action, of her emotions, rang sickening echoes of a long-dead past in her mind that disturbed her more than anything the Goblin King had done.  Sarah sat down, feeling hollow and empty and old.  Hateful; always saying and doing the wrong thing --

            "Jareth, Jareth -- damn you, Jareth -- I wish --  I wish -- "  Her hands lay empty in her lap.  She didn't know what she wished.  Her mind was as empty as her hands.  Wishes were for children.

            And dreams?  What were dreams for?

            Too many thoughts, none of them comforting, suddenly jostled for prominence.  The dreams -- whose dreams were they?  Hers?  Well, that made a certain amount of sense psychologically, but --

            Jareth's?  Could they be _his_ dreams?  Did Jareth dream at all?  She tried to bring him real, real as, oh, any leftover European royalty; Jareth reading, Jareth eating -- what did he do with his time, anyway? -- Jareth asleep in the Goblin Castle on sheets of iridescent cobweb silk….

            Sarah began absently to chew on her thumbnail, a bad habit she had consciously broken long ago.  Jareth's dreams…if he dreamed, what -- or weren't they dreams?  Were they projections the Goblin King was sending to unsettle her sleep?  And if so, why?  Lures?

            Warmth in the pit of her stomach, tingling along her veins as dancing images arose unbidden.  His hands, pressing her against him, skin against skin -- his mouth, burning her with cold fire -- his body, sparkling and shimmering like molten glass as he turned with her in the figures of an ancient dance.  Crystal lures to unsettle her sleep, to drug her imagination and entice her into the arms of the demon lover.  He seemed to want her -- as much as she wanted to be free, Sarah decided in some surprise -- but why?

            _There are millions of girls in the world.  Why me?_

            Why her?  Accept for the moment that Jareth was real, that goblins were real, that all of this fantasy was as real as parking tickets and moldy bread.  If there were a 'king-of-the-goblins', what did he want with her?  What _could_ he want with her?  She'd beaten him once; she should, by all the rules, be free of him.

            She remembered him standing among the ruins of his final trap, drained -- exhausted -- but still haughty, still trying to trick her to the end.  Tall and proud and indefinably, dangerously, attractive even then, not horrible and ugly like the goblins he ruled --

            No, King Jareth was beautiful, even she'd give him that much, thought Sarah with a smile…and then the smile froze sickly on her face.

            What made her think he looked like that at all?  That exotic, incandescent image he spun before her -- what did King Jareth _really_ look like?

            Master of illusion -- _'I am the Labyrinth, Sarah' -- what_ was the creature she had called into her life?

            Demon lover.  Thwarted demon lover.  Did he want revenge?

            _Oh, Sarah, what have you done?_

#

            Revolving through the doors into the dazzlement that was Bloomindale's gave Sarah the dizzying feeling she had stepped back into one of her nightmares.  Sparkling flashing lights, whiffs of strange perfumes…wares to entice the unwary modern alone the corridors of this mundane labyrinth; more things than any one person could possibly buy.  In her quest for the anodyne of the material world, she had forgotten that it was the day of one of Bloomingdale's much-heralded sales; the store was jammed with people.  Her city-balance somehow lost, Sarah was pushed and buffeted by the avid shoppers.  If only she weren't so tired, if only someone could help her out of this --  Lightheaded and breathless, she finally found herself with her back against the security of one of the mirrored pillars.

            "And is this what you want, Sarah?"

            She spun around, breath caught painfully, and faced the Goblin King through the silvered glass.  Harsh light etched sharp-drawn lines on his face; his odd-colored eyes reflected nothing.  Behind him she could see a leafless tree, its branches framing the Labyrinth far beyond.

            "No," she said, backing away, hands held out as if to ward him off.  No, this was not real, she _was_ going crazy -- she'd find the nearest phone and call Dr. Winterthur right now --

            "Hey, lady, watch where you're going!"  No one else seemed to notice anything odd in the mirror; the uncaring crowd forced her ruthlessly toward it.

            Jareth still waited there, pale and cold and proud.  Head cocked, eyebrows raised.  Oddly distant.  Sarah took a deep breath and forced herself to reach out to the mirror.  There was only smooth glass under her fingers; behind her the indistinguishable noises of the crowded store swirled and ebbed until she stood in a bubble of silence.

            "Jareth," she said, and the name throbbed along jangled nerves, "why are you doing this to me?"

            "To you?  I have no power over you -- you've said so."  Words edged like razors; even trying to find meaning in them would hurt too much.

            "You know what I mean!"

            "Do I?"  A voice as dead as the scene behind him.

            She hit her palm flat on the glass between them.  "You know what I want, damn it!"  To her horror, tears spilled over, rolled down her cheeks.  "I want -- "

            "Love?"  Malice and mockery gave the Goblin King's voice throbbing life.  "A strange place to come looking for it.  Look, Sarah."

            Reluctant, impelled by his urgency, Sarah turned. All around her Bloomindale's displayed itself, preening:  changeable, glittering, alien.  Avarice feeding on avarice, all in pursuit of illusion, as cold and superficial as the packaging on this year's perfumes.  As strange and frightening as the Labyrinth could be…for a moment's wild disorientation, Sarah was trapped between the two mirrored worlds, unable to tell which was real.

            "No," she said to both.

            "Love.  You wouldn't know love if it were standing in front of you."

            She spun around.  The Goblin King was still there, his hand pressed against the glass, defining its curving surface from within.  "Is this your choice, Sarah?"  His voice hissed bleak as the scene behind him.  "Think well, before you speak."

            She tried to touch him, to make him listen, but her hand met only glass.  Crystal-smooth -- _'But if you turn it this way--'_   Reflection and image and illusion, and where was the real Jareth?  He was almost a trick of the light; his glitter and the glitter of the lights behind her.  _Was_ there a real Jareth?

            She shook her head, too weary to hunt for the right words.  "I don't know what you want."  She only knew that the mirror revealed no Sarah; made nothing clear.  "Go away, Your Majesty.  I'm too old for Goblin Kings.  Leave me alone."  The effort of talking made even her bones ache.

            "Sarah, Sarah, how can you be so cruel?"  He suddenly looked less human; a vindictive bird-of-prey.  His eyes gathered light, flashed as if reflecting the whirling store lights behind her.  He brought his hands up before him in graceful arcs; they held more light, coldly pulsing.  "Well, I can be cruel too."

            He flung the light and the mirror was awash with it, blinding her.  When she could see again, he was gone.

            Sarah leaned her forehead against the pillar, her breath coming in sobbing gasps.  Gone, he was gone, and on a note of menacing finality that held a promise she did not understand.

            With an effort she made herself breathe slowly, easily.  There was no reason for the frozen knot in her stomach or the pain in her heart, none at all.  What, after all, could he do?  Send her more dreams?  Instead of standing here like an idiot, she thought wearily, she'd better go and spend some money before they threw her out of Bloomie's.

#

            Nothing happened.  That night she slept without dreams; through the night and through most of the following day, with some still center gone -- like an unstrung puppet or rudderless ship -- and the ties that bound her to it unable to cut or to harm.

            No dreams.  And she slept dreamless the next night, and the next.  And then it was Sunday, and she had had no dreams for three days -- and no rest, either.

            It wasn't fair -- damn it, she had work tomorrow!  But Sarah supposed she would have to play Jareth's game; trigger a dream and let him have his way, whatever it was.  She went out that afternoon and bought a peach.

            That night it was easy; she was becoming almost fond of that sweet-tart richness on the tongue….

#

            _There was ash under her feet, and jagged glass, and it was cold, cold enough to freeze her blood.  The walls of the Labyrinth glittered in the dark wind.  She ripped at them until her nails broke, but it was no use . . . ._

            Sarah awoke covered in icy sweat, hair plastered wet to her skin.  She fumbled for the bedside lamp and finally managed to make her fingers obey well enough to turn the switch that would give her light.  Then she sat huddled in the blankets, her head in her hands, until her breathing came more easily and the fear tingling through veins subsided.

            Tonight's dream was the worst of all the nightmares Jareth had sent her from his Labyrinth over the past fourteen years.

            This time she couldn't get in.

#

  
 _ENTRE'ACT : THIRTY-FIVE_

            It was her birthday again.  This June she was thirty-five, and had come home for a family party.  It was silly, really.  The Marines had sent Toby to yet another faraway place with a strange-sounding name, and Sarah had no friends here anymore.  But Dad and Stepmom had wanted to celebrate, and so the three of them were going out to dinner.

            But she was going out alone, first.  It was silly, but she was going.  Sarah went quietly down the stairs and let herself out the back door.  She felt foolish enough; explanations would make this short journey impossible.

#

            The park had been designed by Frederick Law Olmstead, who had practiced on such places as Central Park before setting his hand to produce this artificial Arcadia of statuary, rolling meadows, and bridges over gracefully meandering streams.  The park had been her favorite refuge, as a child.

            It was still a pleasant walk.

            The handball courts were new, and for a moment she was afraid that renovations might have destroyed her childhood sanctuary.  But then she came over a low hill and it was still there, just as it had always been.  The bridge in the background; the sundial, the bench, and the cenotaph; dreaming unused in the golden sun.

            Here she had played at Labyrinth.

            She walked down and brushed a leaf from the face of the sundial.  _I count only the sunny hours._   She had never counted the hours spent here.  A shadow over the carved motto; Sarah looked up.  Clouds piling high, threatening one of the Hudson Valley's famous summer storms.

            She went over to the bench and sat down, heedless of dirt.  Her slacks were cotton gabardine; they could be washed.

            "Well," she said, "I'm here."  Her voice hung heavy in the air, questioning.

            There was no answer.  She hadn't really expected any.  There hadn't been one in seven years, not since --

            Sarah made a face and ripped an ambitious vine from the leg of the concrete bench.  They didn't call it a 'nervous breakdown' anymore.  There were a dozen upwardly-mobile names for it now, all sounding scientific, respectable, all meaning the same thing.  An inability to cope.  A break with reality.

            Now she could look back at that seven-years-younger self with a certain detachment, almost amused by that Sarah's wild insistence that anything could be set right by reason and logic.

            Some things couldn't.

            She had accepted that, after a time she still didn't like to remember.  Numb despair had turned to wild grieving and a desperate search for the way back -- to either Jareth's Labyrinth or to the adult world she'd somehow lost.  She had found neither.  No dreams; no lovers.  Locked out by the Goblin King, Sarah Cunningham stood now in a charmed circle no one cared to enter.

            At last her world had righted itself; life went on.  She left Cromyn Venture Partners; its world had lost the power to convince her of its own importance.  She'd dropped off the fast track, gradually -- a job at a nonprofit agency had been offered and she had taken it, to her own surprise.  It had been the right move, even with the pay cut she'd taken; the benefits were fantastic and the atmosphere relaxed and friendly.

            Gradually, too, she had relaxed, accepting what was, coming to terms with the numb core that eventually replaced the cold pain in her heart.

            No dreams, just as she'd asked . . . .

            He'd given her what she'd said she wanted, even though she hadn't solved his riddle.  She couldn't; she hadn't left anything in Jareth's Labyrinth.  In fact, she'd taken away more than she'd gone in with:  her love for Toby, for Stepmom.  _That for you, King Jareth._   She had found love in the Labyrinth after all.  Quiet love, family love.

            She was content.

            _But not happy._   Unspoken words like the whisper of wings.  Like Jareth's voice, insubstantial as the cloud-shadows that made the sunlight flicker and wane.

            Jareth and Jareth; always Jareth, her unreal reality.  Was he happy now, in his Labyrinth.  Was _he_ lonely?  She had failed both of them, seven years ago…neither of them free, ever….

            Her eyes stung but stayed dry.  "I wish I could see you again," she said aloud.

            Nothing.  She looked at her watch:  6:30.  She'd have to run to get back in time to shower and change.  Better take the shortcut -- through the bushes at the back and across the Andersons' yard.

            She got up and brushed off her slacks.  It was stupid to feel cheated -- what had she expected?  That he'd show up and say 'Happy Birthday, Sarah'?  This was reality; there were no Goblin Kings anymore.  _Be honest, Sarah; there never were.  The Jareth you loved was the one you made up -- not the real Goblin King.  It's your own fantasy that you love.  You don't even know what the real unreal Jareth's really like --_

            It was so convoluted it was funny.  Why didn't she laugh?  Sarah sighed and turned toward the bridge.

            The owl was sitting on the low stone arch.  Still as sculpture; eyes flat black circles in its moon-round face.

            The world seemed to turn upside down; Sarah waited, rode out the dizzy hope.  "Jareth?" she said uncertainly.  She took a step forward, hand outstretched.  The owl picked up one foot and set it down again, indecisive.

            "Jareth?" she said again, and took another step toward the bridge where the owl waited, unblinking.

            A group of boys walking their bikes crossed the meadow far beyond.  Their voices carried back to her, faintly.  She let her hand drop.  There was no Goblin King, there was only a big barn owl tilting its head to examine her.  If there ever had been anything else, she had lost it long ago.  Real life didn't grant you second chances.  Fair or not, that was the way it was.

            "Goodbye," she said, and turned and walked away.

            Behind her the owl flapped its wings and flew away; ungainly at first, it soon caught a reaching breeze and soared up to disappear in the overcast sky.

#

  
 _AND SEVEN TWICE AGAIN_

            The June breeze was hot and soft.  The fluffy white curtains billowed and danced to its vagrant whims.  But the warmth was not unpleasant and the sun streaming through the wide-open window made her familiar old bedroom glow; a golden haze suitable for a place of memories and dreams long unused but fondly remembered.

            Sarah smiled and went in to kneel beside the large cardboard cartons piled neatly in the middle of the floor.  A last duty to her childhood; there were the things she'd given up when she was fourteen.  The cartons were a surprise -- Stepmom had saved them for her all these years.  Sarah had thought they'd been discarded long ago.

            Once she would have clung to whatever was in those boxes as _hers,_ later she would have simply shrugged and thrown them out without looking in.  But she supposed age brought a certain wisdom with it.  Moderation in all things, perhaps -- how dull that always sounded --

            "Sarah!  Sarah, where are you?"

            "Over here, Toby -- in my room."  She realized how silly that sounded even as she called back to him; this hadn't been her room in twenty years.  Toby was thirty now, Sarah was forty-two.  But their parents had never needed to retrench or remodel.  Toby's room had been kept for him, hers for her -- just as they'd left them so long ago.

            "Hey, Sis, what're you doing?  I thought we were going out for lunch."  Toby appeared in the doorway, his face smudged and his clothes attic-dusty.  "What's that stuff?"

            "My old toys.  Stepmom saved them for me to go through."  The first carton opened, Sarah rocked back on her heels and looked up at her brother.  "Look, Tobe, are you _sure_ you don't want the house?  It seems a shame to let it go."

            Toby grinned at her and shook his head.  "The Corps keeps me on the move too much, Sis.  All I could do is rent it out.  Why don't _you_ take it?"

            "Oh, Toby, what would I do with a house this size?"

            "Turn it into a home for wayward cats?" he suggested, and Sarah pulled out the first stuffed animal in the box and threw it at him.  Toby caught it easily and held it up, nose to nose.  "Hey, isn't this -- oh, yeah, Lancelot!  How you doing, bear, ol' buddy?"

            Then he tossed the teddy bear back to Sarah and came over to look at the boxes.  "Boy, you could start a toy store with all this junk!  And that's not even counting the stuff I already sent to the Salvation Army."

            Sarah agreed.  "Dad and Stepmom spoiled us both rotten, I guess."

            "Yeah, I guess."  Toby's voice wavered; he and Sarah stared hard at Lancelot for a moment.  It had been almost a year since their father died, but sorting through the house was still lump-in-the-throat hard.  Sarah knew why Stepmom had just handed the keys over to them and fled to her new condo in Florida rather than face the task.

            _'Please, Sarah -- I can't -- will you and Toby -- ?'_

_Sarah held her tight.  'Sure, Stepmom.  We'll do it.  Don’t you worry -- '_

            Memories were living things.

            Toby crouched down beside her and put his arms around her shoulders.  "So let's see what's in these boxes already."

            Pull open flaps, rummage, lift, exclaim in surprised recognition.  Stuffed animals, games, dolls; an entire long box full of rolled posters -- "What's a Slashing Machine?"  "It was a rock group, Toby."  "Oh."

            A box of lovingly-folded costumes -- princess dresses, pirate shirts, gold and silver veiling….

            Toby stood up, stretched.  "Look, I'm going to get something to eat.  See you later."

            "Umm…."  Sarah hardly noticed him leave.  Her past beguiled her.

            Strands of her long dark hair, teased by the soft June breeze, escaped the untidy swirl pinned on top of her head and slithered down to tickle her throat, touches feather-light.  Sarah brushed at them impatiently and reached for the last box.

            This one was taped shut, the tape wound round and round the box, overlapping until it was hard to see the cardboard under it.  This box she had packed herself, the day after her blackout.  The day after she'd rescued Toby from the King of the Goblins.  The box had been sealed for twenty-eight years -- seven years, and seven more, and seven twice again.

            Sarah put her hands on the box, packing tape slick under her fingers.  She could open it now.  Now it was safe.

            The effort of ripping open a box sealed with a tape-gun by a panic-stricken child brought down more of her hair and made her start sweating.  A scissors would have helped, but Sarah was reluctant to leave her room and her task.  It would be too easy to never come back.  She wanted to finish this.

            The tape yielded to her at last.  Sarah folded back the flaps and looked in.

            There was nothing to be afraid of.  Photographs, the instant ones discolored by time.  She shuffled through them.  Mother and Jeremy.  Odd, how wonderful she'd once thought him.  Now she knew how egotistical, how manipulative, he had been; she wondered if Mother had realized it in time.  Odd, too; she'd never realized before how much the Goblin King resembled  her mother's lover.  _How Freudian.  How trite.  How -- how 'over the top'._

            Sarah smiled wryly and set the photos aside, along with a jumbled pile of crushed newspaper clippings.  Her mother had made her choice; Sarah hoped she'd been happy with it.

            Her music box.  That Sarah lifted out carefully.  She turned the key to make the little silver-gauze lady dance to mechanical music.  Tinkling bell-sounds that echoed in the summer air….

            And at the bottom of the box, books.  All her fairy tales, outgrown in a night.  SNOW WHITE, THE WIZARD OF OZ, THE PHOENIX AND THE CARPET, HALF MAGIC, WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE -- Sarah pushed them aside and put her hands to the book they had hidden.  _Of course.  It was here all the time._

            The book was cool to her touch; she lifted the slim red volume with care.  The book was old, and made older still by long, loving use by  many children before a spoiled young girl named Sarah Cunningham, who loved only fantasy, had been given it as a birthday present.

            THE LABYRINTH.

            The story she had loved above all else, once.  Fantasy more than life; puppet-characters more than the living.  Fantasy had nearly swallowed her up, she had almost sacrificed her brother to it, and herself.

            She had escaped that fate, and had paid the price.  No human lover for Sarah; a jealous Goblin King had seen to that.  She supposed that the price was fair.

            It was, after all, what she had initially been willing to pay.

            And if King Jareth were really only a figment of her imagination -- well, he was a damned effective figment.  Sarah sat back, eyes closed, THE LABYRINTH lying unopened in her lap, and listened to the music box dancer's endless waltz.  The King of the Goblins was a jealous lover, and so Sarah Cunningham had none….

            "I wish I knew why," she said, expecting no reply.

            The June breeze flung itself hard around her, the air shifting and flowing hot.  Then it was very still.

            "Don't you know?" Jareth said.

            Sarah knew he stood just behind her, but she did not open her eyes.  "No," she said.  "No, I don't.  You never would tell me."

            "You want to not only make all the rules, but to break them at will.  It doesn't work that way, Sarah.  Think."  His voice was soft as the summer air; seductive, urging her memories upon her.

            Fingers in her hair, pulling out hair-pins.  Long hair tumbled, faintly damp, over her shoulders.  Hands on her shoulders, then; she was lifted to her feet, turned about.

            She opened her eyes, looked into her dressing table mirror.

            Jareth stood behind her.  This time his cape was a drift caught from the summer-noon sky; his clothes the golden haze of summer light.  He seemed to belong in this timeless room now.  Once she had thought him infinitely old; now he seemed infinitely young.  Ageless.

            And there she stood before him, a woman in a room meant for a girl.  An aging woman.  Hints of silver shining in her fallen hair; traceries of lines etching themselves lace-like beside her eyes, her mouth.  What did the King of the Goblins want with her?

            "Only what you asked of me," he said, bringing his mouth close to her ear.  "Only that."

            Sarah closed her eyes again; the contrast between them now was too painful.  _Only what I asked of him . . . ._   She'd asked for so many stupid things that long-ago summer.  _What did I ask?  Think!_

            _You asked me to take the baby -- I took him._   What else had she asked for?

            "Think, Sarah…."  This time the whisper seemed to fade, die away; cloth fluttered behind her like wings.

            He would be gone if she did not find the answer.  _No!  Not another seven years alone -- NO!_   Sarah flung herself back along  her memories, back to the stormy June night so many years ago that had condemned her to this loneliness.

            _Dark out, but not as dark as her own emotions.  Rain lashing the windows, Toby crying, crying -- oh, shut up, shut UP, I'll tell you a story, you want a story, right?  Staring at herself in the mirror, her eyes glittering, slanting with malice.  A wicked stepmother story, a wicked Toby story, and Sarah too lashed by her own mother's fickleness to hear how ridiculous the story was.  And then her constant, best-loved folly; clutched to her heart to let her bear that unbearable rejection; fed by her favorite book.  THE LABYRINTH, ruled by the Goblin King, doomed and handsome, forced by a sorcerer's curse to grant that which was asked of him truly, and from the heart._

_Her own voice, gloating.  'But what nobody knew was that the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with the girl, and he had given her certain powers.'_

_The King of the Goblins had fallen in love and had given her certain powers.  He loved her, and had given her powers -- powers -- because --_

_Memory falling backwards, into the dark maze the Labyrinth had sealed away.  Her fourteenth birthday, reading under the tree -- words spoken, heartfelt, unwary -- 'I wish you were in love with ME -- '_

_' -- I have turned the world upside down, and I have done it all for YOU -- '_

            "No," said Sarah.  "Oh, _no."_   The music box waltz chimed its last notes and the music died away.  Sarah opened her eyes.  Jareth looked at her from the other side of the mirror.  Behind him, her room, reflection of long-dead certainties.  The smooth glass, dappled by random sun, was transparent as water; impassible.

            _'I wish you were in love with ME -- '_   One wish from the heart, granted by the magic book that was his curse -- and the King of the Goblins was forced to be in love with a fourteen-year-old girl.  Madly.  Jealously.  Possessively.  Her own words echoed back to haunt her.  Someone who would never leave her.  Never.

            One wish -- and Sarah Cunningham had power over the Goblin King, because she had wished truly and he had to grant it.  One wish -- and Jareth had done all she wanted; all she had asked for, he had done.  _I love you…I wish you were in love with ME…_   And then she had forgotten him, abandoned him, gone running after human lovers and left the Goblin King alone in his castle -- _Oh, Sarah, what have you done -- ?_   Now she knew.

            "Oh, Jareth," she said, "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean it -- "  She stopped; when she was fourteen, she'd meant every word, meant it with all her heart, or they wouldn't be here now, facing each other through a mirror.

            "You're _sorry,"_ he said.  The word was a long-drawn hiss and Sarah flinched away from his fury.  Then he settled and shrugged.  "Now you know," he said, tilting his head.  "Say the words, Sarah."

            "The - the words?"  Her voice didn't want to work properly, as if it didn't belong to her anymore.

            "Oh, come, come, come, Sarah -- say the words.  Set us free.  You know the rules."

            His impatience was almost funny; four times seven years, just because the rules said she had to find out for herself, and _NOW_ he wanted her to hurry.  Still, she supposed it wasn't fair to keep him, now that she knew why they had been chained so tightly.  It had all be her fault all along.  If only she hadn't been such a stupid, spoiled little girl….

            "All right," she said, and took a deep breath.  Her chest hurt/ tight-banded with something that wasn't pain.  Not yet.  _Truly, and from the heart -- 'The King of the Goblins does not love the young girl, and she does not love him.  Jareth does not love Sarah.'  That sound do it, I guess --  Say it, Sarah.  Say your right words --_

            No.  That wouldn't work.  Those weren't the right words.  Why not?  _Think, Sarah -- for once in your life, think before you speak._

            She looked down at the book in her hands.  The magical book.  Really magical…the rules of THE LABYRINTH gave its reader one wish from the heart, not more.  All her other wishes had been granted by Jareth.

            Because he loved her.  Because she'd forced him to.  One wish, granted and gone, and how now to set them both free?

            _Free . . . ._   Sarah's fingers slid over the smooth red cover of THE LABYRINTH in her hands.  Then she put the book down on the dressing table; it lay between them like a promise, or a threat.  The book would grant her no more wishes; she must wish for something Jareth could grant her.  _Out of the goodness of his heart,_ she thought, and smiled wryly.  _Or mine . . . ._

            She could not wish him out of love with her.  That did not lie within his power, nor in hers.  _What's said is said;_ there was no recalling it now.

            "Sarah…."  His voice, impatient, yet oddly wistful, caught her back.

            _Dreaming again,_ she thought in irritation, looking through the glass at Jareth.  Haughty, proud -- what did he want her to say?  What could she possibly give to make amends for what she'd done?

            _For what I made him do --_   Startled, she considered the matter.  Adversaries from the moment they met face to face; they'd had to be.  Jareth had been fighting for his own freedom, his own peace.  And the only way he could have it, under the rules, the harsh, unrelenting rules of fantasy's logic that she herself had created with that careless wish, was to possess Sarah as she did him.

            "The crystal," she said aloud, slowly, feeling her way.  "The crystal that would show me my dreams…they would have been you, wouldn't they?  So I would love you back.  But that didn't work, so you sent the peach.  If I'd eaten it all, I would have stayed with you, loving or not."  It all finally made sense; fit perfectly, an intricate puzzle to which she had the key at last.  "Let me rule you, and I will be your slave, you said -- "

            Always coaxing her, encouraging her, teasing her to madness -- 'It's here, Sarah, in my Labyrinth' -- _Find it, Sarah, find it, find it, find it in my Labyrinth. --_ 'You come to my Labyrinth; you come to me -- '

            He wanted her to come back to the Labyrinth.  He wanted her to come --

            "Well, Sarah?  Surely you must know by now."

Impatient, yes -- and who could blame him?  And tired -- no, resigned.  As if he knew already what she would say, that she would ask what he could not grant, and that he faced long cold years alone, as she did….

            "Yes, I know," Sarah said.  "Take me with you, Jareth.  Take me into the Labyrinth. I -- I wish you would."

            His head tilted.  "Really?" he said, and Sarah knew this was the right choice, the choice that somehow would free them both.

            "Yes," she said.  A pressure on her heart was gone; she only knew now that deadly weight had been there.  How long?  Another one of her silly questions, she supposed.  How long since adult-Sarah had come to love the reality of child-Sarah's fantasy?  No magic spell but the workings of her own heart, binding her to her lover from her first dreams through all the years they had spent, together and apart.  Jareth, who had never left her, never.  "Yes, really.  I don't think you'd like to live here, even if this is a big house."

            He smiled and both eyes glowed warmth.  "It took you long enough to make up your mind."

            "I didn't know I had to."

            Jareth shrugged; the reflection of her room behind him wavered, seen through troubled waters.  When it cleared, she stood with him on the hill above the Labyrinth.  "Everyone does sooner or later, Sarah."

            The arching sky was diamond-blue and the path down to the gate thick with flowers.  She went into his arms, leaned her head on his shoulder.  Not cool, this time, not insubstantial, but warm; real…Sarah started to surrender herself to the feeling of belonging, of home, and then came to herself with a start.

            "Oh!  Toby!"

            "And what of him?"  Jareth looked deeply suspicious.  "He must ask his own favors."

            "No, I didn't mean that.  But I can't just disappear without a trace -- he'll be frantic.  Jareth, I've got to go back and leave him a note.  _"Right, Sarah, a note saying, 'Dear Toby, have run off with the King of the Goblins.  Having a wonderful time.  Love, Sarah.'  Real reassuring._   "Or talk to him and explain -- "  _Somehow._

            "Is that all?"  The Goblin King's hand twisted, held a crystal globe, flashing light.  "We'll just leave him this."  Another supple twist; the crystal spun into a peach, honey-ripe.  "When Toby eats it, he'll understand."

            "Are you sure?"  Idiotic question.

            He nodded.  Sarah held out her hand.  "Let me give it to him, Jareth.  I want to say goodbye."

            "Oh, very well.  But don't take too long."  The Goblin King paused, head tilted, the pose she had seen so often.  "I'll meet you at the castle, when you're done."

            The castle at the center of the Labyrinth, beyond the Goblin City, to bring back the peace that she had stolen.  Sarah wasn't worried about finding it.

            This time she knew the way.

#

 

**_THE WAY FORWARD . . ._ **

            Half-an-hour later Sarah stood before the mirror for the last time.  One step, and there would be no more turning back.  Her choice was made.

            Her choice.  But what about his?

            Sarah looked down at the dressing table, put her hand flat on the book that lay there.  She had loved Jareth freely and of her own will -- her own fierce desire.  And he loved her; oh, yes, there was no doubt about that.  He had to.

            Would he love her if he didn't have to?  _No,_ she thought sadly.  _Of course he wouldn't.  How could he?_

            Love was based on -- on what?  She didn't know, but knew one thing:  love was not based on force.  On knowing someone, maybe, or at least finding out about them.  Wanting to find out about them.  Wanting them to be happy….  At fourteen she had cared only for herself; her Goblin King had never had a chance against that overwhelming egoismthat counted no cost.  _No choice . . ._ was she any less selfish now?

            The little book lay cool under her hand, innocuous.  The book that controlled the Goblin King.  She could leave it here or, better still, burn it before she went to Jareth.  No one would know or care.  No one but Sarah.  And she and Jareth would be happy together.

            "We _will,"_ Sarah told the book insistently.  "Do I have to give _him_ up too?"  No answer; of course there was no answer.  THE LABYRINTH…a true maze, twist on twist; this was its final cruel trick, its killing trap.

            Jareth would always be madly in love with her.  He had to be.  Sarah had said so, when she was fourteen.  He had no choice, none, and she would always know it, and so would he, for however long time was --

            "No," said Sarah, and the word echoed oddly in the quiet room.  "No. I'm not going to do that to us."

            The book waited under her hand.  It was Jareth's curse; it was still her book.  She knew he could not take it away from her, or even ask her for it.  It didn't work that way; it wasn't that easy.  If Jareth could have taken it, or asked for it, he would have.

            But there was always a way.  She hadn't read all those fairy tales as a child for nothing.  There was a way to set Jareth truly free -- free even of her.

            _Truly free --_   She hesitated, then drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders.  She picked up THE LABYRINTH from the dressing table and reached out and touched her fingertips to the cool mirror.

#

            She stood again at the top of the hill overlooking the Labyrinth.  The summer sky reflected the flowers covering the hillside -- all the candy-colors of June; blue and pink and white and pale yellow; shy violets and dogmatic pansies -- buttercups and moss roses and flowers for which she had no names -- all the squandered splendor of an English summer garden.

            The walls of the Labyrinth were covered with roses, thickly twining, and the gate stood open wide.  She was welcomed here.  Her was her home.

            Sarah looked down at the book in her hands.  _Home . . . well, it'll be nice while it lasts._   She began to walk down the path to the open gate.  The path was paved now; neatly-set bricks sparkling yellow below the flowing waves of her long skirts --

            Her old costume, made newly beautiful; she was dressed as the Princess of the Labyrinth.  She put up a hand to her hair.  A wreath of flowers crowned her, soft-petal real.  Despite her uncertainty Sarah found herself smiling, then laughing.  She tucked the book into one of her capacious sleeves before picking up her skirts and running down to the gate.

            A dwarf stood there, regarding the buzzing fairies swarming around the roses with a dour expression.  As Sarah came to a halt, he looked around.

            "Hoggle!" she cried.

"Oh, it's you."  He sniffed.  "Took you long enough."  
"Oh, don't!  Hoggle, is it really you?"

            "Who else would it be?"  He swatted at a dive-bombing fairy.  "Wish His Majesty'd let me spray these darn things.  Nuisances, that's what they is."

            "His Majesty," said Sarah, elation fading. "I'm sorry, Hoggle -- I'm glad to see you again, but I've got to go to the castle."

            "That figures."  Hoggle sniffed again.  "You learned how to ask questions yet?"

            "Yes," said Sarah.  "Yes, I  think so.  Goodbye, Hoggle.  I -- I hope I see you again."

            "That depends on you, now, don't it?"

            "Yes.  Yes, I guess it does."  Sarah felt the book weighting her sleeve, and walked through the gate to the Labyrinth.  The long maze stretched away to her left and right; the way to the castle was clear before her.

            The castle at the center of the Labyrinth, where the King of the Goblins waited for her.  Because he had to --

            Clutching at her sleeve, Sarah took the first step.

#

            Jareth met her at the castle door.  The King of the Goblins, elegant and avian; his cloak floated feather-soft about him, wrapped him in cloud and sky.  "Sarah," he said, and held out his hands.

            She went to him and let him wrap her cold fingers in his warm ones.  Comfort, a touch to warm her to the heart -- with a little shock, she realized he was not wearing gloves.  How odd; as if he were really naked before her now.

            Smiling, he pulled her to him; Sarah automatically assumed a kiss and tilted back her head.  Yes.  They'd both been waiting a lifetime -- hers -- for this….

            But he only folded his winged cloak around her with an extravagant swooping gesture, gathering her in.  Warm, safe, loved…at least for the moment.  "Sarah," he said again, the word drawn long in sibilant caress.  His lips were close to her ear, his breath teased the wayward tendrils of her hair.  "You're here at last.  Come in; my castle is yours."

            "Wait a minute."  Nerves made her awkward, stiff; the words came out harsh and grating.  Sarah knew how bad they sounded the moment they hit the air, but words can never be recalled.

            Jareth pushed her away, gripped her shoulders with talon-strong fingers.  His eyes blazed warnings; one hot, one cold.  "You have made your choice, Sarah -- you're in _my_ kingdom now.  Don't torment me here, or you will find out how powerful I can be."

            "I'm not," she said, unmoving under his prisoning hands.  Her shoulders ached; his fingers were harsh as the talons of an owl.  She fumbled in her sleeve, pulled out the book.  "Here, Jareth.  I -- I've brought you a present."  She held the book out to him and waited.

            In the summer sunlight the gilded title on the faded red cover burned like fire.  THE LABYRINTH.  Magic book.  Book of power.  Key to the Labyrinth and ruler of the Goblin King.  The book that would grant its reader one heart-felt wish.

            His fingers loosened, slid slowly from her shoulders.  Quietly, as if he hardly dared breathe, Jareth took the book from her hand.  Even the air was graveyard still as he opened it and gently turned its pages.

            Then his head came up and he looked straight at her, predator's eyes hooded.  "Sarah -- "  It was the first time she had ever seen him hesitate in any way.  "Sarah, do you know what you've done?"

            "Yes," she said, keeping her voice level.  "Yes, I know.  I've given you back your power.  That's what you wanted, isn't it?  What you really wanted.  You asked me to set you free -- "  She stopped herself, knowing she was about to be maudlin, go right smack 'over the top' and stay there.

            Using every bit of control she had, she kept her voice flat, clueless.  "Well, you don't have to play games for your peace now, Jareth.  You have the book.  It's your turn to have your heart's desire."

            She turned away, not wanting him to see her cry, not wanting to see his face as he wished.  Maybe he'd be kind.  Maybe he'd wish that she didn't love him either.

            "Sarah.  Look."

            Unwillingly, she turned, drawn by the gentle command of his voice.  He held the book up in one hand, tossed it upward.  A flash of light; encased in crystal, the little red book rested on his palm.  Impossibly small and harmless and far away, it looked like the figure in a snow globe, waiting to be shaken until the snowflakes danced and then settled peacefully again at last.

            He flung the crystal and it floated upwards.  Up and up, glistening iridescent as a soap-bubble, insubstantial as light.  Sarah followed its path with her eyes, waiting for the pain to start.  Up --   the crystal orb hung suspended far above them. . . .

            There was a sound of brittle bells and the crystal burst into a million glittering pieces that fell down to cling to her face and hair and then dissolve, leaving lingering warmth.

            She touched her fingers to the trails of sweetness.  "What -- what did you wish for?"

            Jareth swept his feathered cloak around her again and pulled her close.  "Never tell your wishes, Sarah.  They won't come true if you do."

            He was smiling down at her, and suddenly it didn't matter what he had wished for .  "Well, Sarah?  Will you come in with me now?"

            "Yes," she said, and leaned her had against his chest.  His heart beat under her ear, hard and fast.  "Oh, yes.  Oh, Jareth -- I've been waiting such a long time --"

            He bent and swooped her up into his arms as if she were weightless as one of his spheres of light.  "So have I," he said, and smiled again.  "Come, Sarah -- my Labyrinth still has some surprises waiting for you.

            Sarah put her arms around his neck, and Jareth kissed her….

#

            …and because they loved each other truly, and from the heart, the spell that had held him captive for so long was broken at last.  The King of the Goblins took the Princess of the Labyrinth in to his castle beyond the Goblin City…

#

            …where Jareth and Sarah lived happily ever after…

#

            …just as he had wished.

 

 

_=Finis=_


End file.
